


Introductions

by Joseph_B_Bergstrom



Series: The General and the Grand Admiral [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebels, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack Crossover, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen, Okay . . ., Something DOES happen, Sort of an Epic Bromance, Space Battle, Though that's not my fault, Thrawn-like maneuvers, Who am I kidding? It's the most epic of all bromances, but it's still fun, kind of, nothing really happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24363991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joseph_B_Bergstrom/pseuds/Joseph_B_Bergstrom
Summary: Maedhros, son of Fëanor, has found himself in a rather unusual situation, and is currently stranded in a new universe by a Jedi Artifact. He's not entirely a fish out of water, however, since this isMaedhroswe're talking about, after all. And while the Elf-lord is settling into his new environment little-by-little, Thrawn is intent on making a fewintroductionson his behalf. . . .
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo & Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo & Gilad Pellaeon
Series: The General and the Grand Admiral [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748641
Comments: 20
Kudos: 69





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morwen_of_gondor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwen_of_gondor/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The General and the Grand Admiral](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23484274) by [morwen_of_gondor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwen_of_gondor/pseuds/morwen_of_gondor). 



> This is all Morwen's fault. Really.  
> :D
> 
> If you haven't read the first work in this series, you likely won't understand what the heck is going on. So just go give _The General and the Grand Admiral_ a read, and then come back and read this!

# 1

“A friend is a truly precious thing.”

—Grand Admiral Mitth’raw’nuruodo

* * *

**_Deep Space, Mid Rim, 0 BBY_**

Captain Gilad Pellaeon paced in front of the transparasteel port, the beautiful, star-streaked vista of hyperspace reviewed and approved by his old, brown eyes.

An ensign approached him tentatively, almost pausing ten paces away to announce his presence before he got past the point of no return, but remembering at the last moment that it would be unwise to shout on the bridge for _any_ reason.

All of the officers and enlisted men—from the salty line spacers, to snot-nosed midshipmen, and seasoned lieutenants—aboard _Chimaera_ knew better than to shout their reports—or simple announcements of their existence—like they were in a cattle market; it made the Captain rather grouchy.

“Sir?” the young man said finally, in a quiet, respectful tone, to catch his CO’s attention.

Pallaeon straightened and turned to peer at the younger officer. Nominally, the ensign was in charge of one of the star destroyer’s many gyms—not exactly a glorious task that midshipmen in the Academy dreamed of—though, in truth, his NCO was the one really in charge. It was a system that had been in place in every military since spearmen had been lining up in phalanxes on Coruscant.

If the NCO had shown up to report as unexpectedly as the ensign had, Pallaeon would have known that something was _truly_ wrong. As it was, he was simply curious.

Once the boy had saluted, Pallaeon said, “Yes, Ensign . . . Gail?” He had to pause until he managed to attach the boy’s name to his face. Though there were 9,326 officers aboard, he certainly could never forget the face of the ensign after running into the half-terrified boy outside of the officers’ quarters one late night.

That encounter hadn’t been eventful, but he’d then found the missing Admiral sitting in his office drinking brandy with a tall alien he’d never seen before. With swords. _That_ had been memorable.

“Sir,” Gail said again. “I’m very sorry to interrupt you here—”

“Do you intend to report, or are you going to stand there sputtering?” Pallaeon demanded. A small smile was instantly smothered by his forty years in the Imperial Navy. It was the prerogative of senior officers to torture their ensigns and midshipmen for the sake of a giggle over a glass of spirits later in the night. It was another time-honored tradition, and one that he was inordinately fond of.

“Uh . . . no, sir.”

“Then report, Gail. What was so important that you came to rouse the dragon in his own lair?”

The term threw the younger man for a minute, but he carried on valiantly. “Sir, I wish to report that . . . well, there have been some irregularities in my department.”

“Irregularities?” Pallaeon asked, letting the word hang in the air ominously, reminding himself to chortle later at the ensign’s look of severe discomfort.

“Yes, sir,” Gail said. “I—”

“You do realize,” Pallaeon interrupted, somewhat quieter, so as to not humiliate the ensign—he might have enjoyed a chuckle at his junior officers’ expense, but he wasn’t _cruel_. . . well, _he_ didn’t think so, anyway, “that asking me to drop the hammer on some spacer who’s been giving you trouble is like swatting a fly with a turbolaser.” He smiled a little under his mustache. “Tell your petty officer to take care of it—that’s what he’s there for.”

“Uh . . . yes, sir,” Gail said very uneasily.

“Besides,” Pallaeon said, resisting the urge to wink comfortingly—that would have been just a little too unseemly, “I can assure you, Ensign, that there is nothing about your ‘irregularities’ that the Service hasn’t found a way to fix thirty years ago.”

* * *

“This is most irregular,” Maedhros, Prince of the Noldor, commented, his expression matching the wry humor in his voice.

Thrawn smiled in his thin, seemingly-cold way, though the tall, gray-eyed bipedal holding a sparring blade knew it was his equivalent of a grin. “Which part?” he asked, equally humorous.

They had stolen—though Thrawn insisted that they had merely ‘temporarily appropriated’—the gym from the rest of the bridge crew for a few hours, as the azure-skinned admiral had insisted on not revealing their sparring matches to the rest of _Chimaera_. . . and Thrawn’s office wasn’t quite large enough for a proper bout.

Still, Maedhros found it slightly amusing that Thrawn had chosen to steal the gym Ensign Fish was in charge of. Thrawn—as well as the captain of this strange, star-going vessel—seemed to enjoy frightening and annoying Fish ever since Maedhros and Thrawn’s sudden emergence aboard the star destroyer.

“I would begin with the creature of iron.” Maedhros gestured at the DT sentry droid standing at rest in a corner of the gym, a staff in its mechanical hands. Though the son of Fëanor still towered over the droid, he admitted to himself that it looked very imposing. Of course, Orcs looked imposing as well.

“It is a machine,” Thrawn said by way of explanation, pulling a staff from a rack of weapons. The sword he’d acquired from Himring’s armory was locked away in a footlocker in his quarters—he’d been unwilling to risk severely damaging it in a spar against a DT droid . . . though after witnessing Elvish craftsmanship, he wondered if his fear was misplaced; perhaps he should have been more concerned about the droid.

“Does it have a soul?” Maedhros asked.

Thrawn paused, testing the weight and balance of the staff—he’d been trained with one only slightly different on Csilla. “An interesting question,” he said. “My people would say they have none—but others would say they do.”

“But you?”

Thrawn shrugged. “The universe is an odd place—” he favored Maedhros with another thin smile, “—and I know better than to assume.”

Maedhros seemed to accept the verbal shrug, and lifted his training sword in a salute to the droid. “Soul or otherwise, I salute you,” he said.

The droid didn’t move until Thrawn said, “Initiate _K’an’evri ch’aah K’ticah_.”

Maedhros’ ears perked up at the unfamiliar language, before all such frivolous thoughts were driven from his mind.

* * *

Thrawn saw more than most men, that was certainly a given, but even he had a hard time following the actions of the Elf and droid.

Maedhros’ staff flashed forward, attacking with the tip of it. His thrust extended and was gone almost before the droid’s programmed reflexes could react. Almost.

A droid—especially one reprogrammed for sparring against a blue-skinned humanoid with reflexes a third again greater than a Human—has no apparent limit to its reaction time, and a military model like the DT registered actions down to the millionth of a second . . . though it couldn’t exactly _react_ within a millionth of a second. Instead, the DT’s reaction came a little after a thousandth of a second . . .

Maedhros recoiled in surprise, as his staff was hammered to the side with an impossibly fast—and strong—blow. He twisted with the droid’s parrying strike, riding the momentum of the blow instead of trying to stand his ground and take the shock of it.

As he twisted he adjusted his mental assessment of the droid. It was certainly as imposing- _looking_ as an Orc, but this thing could have slaughtered those perversions of nature by the droves.

The DT turned its parrying blow into a strike by reversing the direction of his staff’s movement with hydraulic actuators, and went for the ‘killing’ blow against Maedhros’ chest. Maedhros sensed from experience more than saw that the blow was coming, and managed to twist away again, backing away quickly, though not escaping quickly enough to avoid a bruise. Grappling in such close quarters with such a strong creature wasn’t, he decided, what could come under the heading of “A Good Idea.”

Thrawn, walking with a stance that Maedhros had seen before, during their brief skirmish with Orcs on the road to Himring and during their sparring matches, took a position a handful of paces away. He was half-crouched, resting lightly on the balls of his feet. Maedhros noticed in an absent-minded manner that Thrawn had stripped his light regulation boots off, and that his feet were bare of any socks as well.

“You perhaps could have warned me,” Maedhros said, referring of course to the droid, his voice more humorous than anything.

“Perhaps,” Thrawn admitted, circling away from Maedhros as the droid began moving toward them again. “But I know how you enjoy surprises.”

* * *

Pallaeon noticed that his commanding officer seemed to be moving a little stiffly when the Chiss sat down across from him in the officers’ lounge and ordered a whiskey from the serving droid.

“Where’s your friend, Admiral?” Pallaeon asked while Thrawn waited on his glass.

“Discovering the joys of bacta,” Thrawn answered, sipping his glass slowly once it appeared. “I’m sure he’ll arrive soon.”

Pallaeon smiled under his mustache, no longer required to look so stern and commanding as when he was on duty, and took a sip of his gin. He thought of Ensign Gail and chuckled, eliciting a raised eyebrow from Thrawn. Thinking of Gail’s face, Pallaeon said, “I must confess a sin.”

“Lay your soul bare, my son.”

By the time Maedhros approached the table, equally stiff as Thrawn—though both of them were in better shape than the DT droid (that is to say, in one piece)—he found his mortal friend laughing slightly at the end of the captain’s well-embellished tale.

“Your salve is quite remarkable,” Maedhros commented, sitting down. He raised an eyebrow curiously at a little serving droid that approached him before Thrawn intervened and ordered a bottle of Chandrilan wine for him.

“Your observation is merely in the theoretical, I’m sure,” Pallaeon said, wondering how exactly both Thrawn and the tall, gray-eyed alien could have managed to beat themselves stiff, but knowing that he’d likely never find out.

Thrawn and Maedhros shared a glance. “Naturally.”

* * *

Ensign Gail found the pieces of the DT droid arrayed in a chaotic and rather inventive mess across the gym floor. Apparently the droid had carried on even as someone—like a certain Chiss admiral and his friend—harried it from all sides, beating dents the size of a man’s fist into the droid’s chassis. Somewhere along the way it seemed to have caught fire, and had scorched a sizable plot of the deck before sprinklers had doused it and the rest of the gym.

Gail muttered to himself as he set one of his men to sweeping up pieces of servos and photoreceptors and another to collecting stray bits of the droid.

Eyeing two heavily-used staffs balefully, he wondered if Pallaeon was right and his petty officer could take care of this . . . though ordering PO Cloncy to chew out a grand admiral might be easier said than done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do comment, and let me know what you thought! I intend on following this up with a few more chapters, though we'll see how that goes . . .


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . yeah, it's been a month. . . .  
> Thrawn and Maedhros weren't being very cooperative with my writing, but they're talking to me again, so that's something at least . . .
> 
> Thanks to Morwen for helping me beta this chapter! It needed a bit of help. :)
> 
> As usual, I blame Morwen for everything. ;)

# 2

“Beauty must be taken where it can be found.”

—Maedhros, son of Fëanor, Prince of the Noldor

* * *

**_Naboo Orbit, Mid Rim, 0 BBY_**

“There are evils in this galaxy, young one,” Kalan Tar said, his horribly-mutilated face twisted into the expression of a placid smile. Between a lower lip that had been cut away by his own hands, ears that ended in ragged strips of scarred flesh, and asymmetrical tattoos winding around his face, he looked like a creature from the mind of the most perverted horror author.

“Evils,” he repeated, gazing out at the stars. He had been born at the very end of the Great Journey through the void, but he yet remembered how the grandfathers had hated and feared the endless dark. Their curses against the emptiness still rang in his ears, and he knew that no matter the Unworthy that infested this galaxy, he would always love the soft light of the stars.

Tran Yun, the fledgling warrior who’d been given to his care nodded, as was expected of him. He wouldn’t have given a second thought to what the old tottering fool had to say if he had had his way. But the old one was his master for the moment, and he would serve him as faithfully as he served the Yun’o.

“I know that expression, child,” Kalan said, twisting the last of his words into a slight sneer. “You think me old, with no mind left.”

“Of course not,” Tran lied.

“Bah. If the young knew as much as they thought they did, we would not be here, looking for the weakest bastions.”

Tran sighed. “Evils?” he humored the old one.

“Evils,” Kalan agreed. “Abominations of machinery that Yun-Yuuzhan hates infest this galaxy. And the creatures that build them know nothing of the True Way, and care not to learn.” Nothing he said was particularly interesting to Tran, as it was all knowledge he’d known since he’d been a child.

As if reading his mind, Kalan said, “But you will discover something as you travel with me, child.” His twisted, placid smile grew slightly. “That some of the Unworthy we mingle with are to be respected.”

Tran blinked at the contradiction in the sentence. “The Unworthy are—”

“Unworthy,” Kalan said. “But that does not mean they do not know how to wage war.”

While Tran stifled a response, Kalan chuckled and swung the nose of their stolen light freighter around, so that the jewel of Naboo could be seen through the canopy.

* * *

 _Chimaera_ shuddered slightly as it emerged from hyperspace, and Maedhros, prince of the Noldor, swayed slightly at the unfamiliar sensation of the inertial compensator clashing with the artificial gravity.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever been sick—likely not since he’d been a child—but he felt the vague stirrings in his stomach and shifted his stance, vainly trying to calm the small creature doing flips down there.

Slight nausea didn’t distract him from the sudden, awe-inspiring sight of a thousand streaks of light collapsing into just as many stars, though. He’d never seen anything quite like it in his long life, and he realized that his mouth was open slightly, much to his silent embarrassment.

Grand Admiral Thrawn glanced at his friend, a small smile on his lips. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Very,” Maedhros answered, slightly awed. The nausea returned for a moment, as his inner ear screamed at him, _Something’s wrong!_

He hid his reaction quickly . . . or so he thought, for Thrawn still smiled at him and whispered quietly, “You’ll get used to it.”

Maedhros nodded slowly, willing the feeling away.

Pallaeon presided over the bridge staffers with tact and ruthless efficiency, the Elf noted, occasionally calling out orders that made little sense to Maedhros without understanding the context. He knew a natural leader of men, however, when he saw one.

The captain of the _Chimaera_ turned to a lieutenant commander—Maedhros had realized very quickly that the multi-colored plaques they wore on their uniforms denoted an officer’s rank of some kind—and said, “Care to take us in, Mr. Grear?” The request seemed just that, but Maedhros saw the slight, professional challenge for what it was.

Grear nodded, said, “Aye, Captain,” and climbed out of the bridge’s port staff pit to take a position beside Pallaeon.

“You have the bridge, Mr. Grear.”

“I have the bridge,” Grear responded formally.

Thrawn nudged Maedhros slightly with his elbow. “Commander—” for some reason, Maedhros had noted, lieutenant commanders were simply referred to as ‘commanders’ “—Grear is the third in command,” he murmured. “An excellent tactical officer—but he needs to work on his ship handling.”

Maedhros nodded, watching Pallaeon overseeing Grear’s steady commands and nodding a little at how the young man was conducting himself. There was something almost . . . familial, in the way officers were treated aboard the _Chimaera_ , he thought, watching the captain provide gentle, tacit corrections every so often.

The Elf gestured at the planet hanging in space before them. “I had never thought to see a world like this,” Maedhros said quietly. “Never even truly imagined it.”

Thrawn shook his head. “Nor did I,” Thrawn said simply, though Maedhros heard a note of longing in his voice. There was much he didn’t know about this _arda_ , but Maedhros wondered if Thrawn had chosen to be a warrior and sail the stars . . . or if the circumstances had chosen for him.

Before Maedhros could dwell too long on the question, a staffer spoke up, alerting Grear. “Sir, Ronwem Station is challenging us.”

“Answer the challenge,” Grear answered.

Thrawn murmured quietly, again, so that only Maedhros could hear, “A resupply station. The _Chimaera_ ’s range is effectively unlimited . . . but our perishables are not so unlimited.”

Maedhros nodded a little. They were stopping into a port to resupply, that much could be easily understood to him, even though he’d never been a sailor back in _Endor_ . “Of course,” he said. The _Chimaera_ was essentially a city going from star to star, and he knew that nearly fifty thousand men would eat quite a lot.

“Challenge has been accepted, Commander,” a staffer reported. “They’re standing by with tractors and tugs.”

“Very good,” Grear answered, glancing for a moment at Pallaeon, who only nodded a little. “Stand by to match velocity.”

Thrawn nudged Maedhros slightly. “Come. We should pay our respects to the locals.”

* * *

**_Naboo, Mid Rim, 0 BBY_**

The _Lambda_ -class shuttle hardly even shook as it slid into the atmosphere of Naboo. Its shield formed an aerodynamic teardrop that allowed it to slide into the atmosphere with little resistance, though it was slowly being reshaped into an aerobrake that would slow them.

“There is someone you know here?” Maedhros asked.

“Not well,” Thrawn answered. “But when a grand admiral makes a stop in a star system it’s politic to pay a visit—to show the flag, if you will.” He snorted a little. “A useless gesture on some worlds, but one I am obligated to make.”

Maedhros had never heard of ‘showing the flag’ but he believed he understood the notion behind it. As such, he leaned back in his padded crash seat, studying the calm-faced blue mortal across from him. “Why did you bring me, then?” he asked. “I am no grand admiral.”

Thrawn smiled a little. “There are introductions that need to be made, while I show the flag,” he said simply. “And I always appreciate another set of eyes when I deal with a politician.”

* * *

The Unworthy were waiting for Kalan and Tran. Their horrid, wretched forms stood around the hidden landing pad, and underneath his _ooglith masquer_ , Kalan shuddered a little at the sight of the creatures.

 _Infidels,_ he thought silently, the word coming out as an unspoken curse. Useful infidels, of course, but infidels nonetheless. Even after his nearly thirty years spent living among the Unworthy, Kalan Tar was still repulsed by their forms.

Tran Yun hid his distaste less carefully, even with his _ooglith masquer_ on, and Kalan frowned at the young one. “Remember what I said,” Kalan told him. “They are Unworthy, but they can kill us just as well as a Believer.”

“I heard you, old one,” Tran snapped. “I don’t see why we must respect them as warriors . . . they look fleshy and weak.”

“Be still,” Kalan ordered, as he shut off the repulsorlifts and powered down the freighter. “I will speak for us both.”

“As you command.”

The Gungans tipped their spears toward the two disguised Yuuzhan Vong as they emerged from the freighter’s main hold. “Hail, palos,” a Gungan warrior with a rattling set of silver armbands said, his distinctive local pidgin butchering Basic. “Yousa have brought more weapons?”

“Of course,” Kalan said. After thirty years of speaking the languages of this galaxy, he had learned to arouse little suspicion, even when he occasionally slipped up and phrased his sentences as if he were speaking his native tongue. “The weapons are in the hold—old stuff, mostly, but they will still kill.”

“Good,” the Gungan said. “Wesa feared da weapons wouldn’t arriven until aftah da attacken.”

Kalan’s ears perked up from under the disguise. The Gungans had never let him know when they planned their uprising—after all, he was simply an arms trader, and they weren’t going to ask his advice on staging an insurrection—but the Elders had instructed him to sow the seeds of as much unrest as he could. If the Gungans were already planning on launching their uprising, that would go a long way to furthering the unrest in the Mid Rim.

The Gungan pointed to Tran. “Who’s-a dis?”

The young warrior didn’t answer, and Kalan smiled as he gestured toward him. “My brother’s son—I took him on this round as a favor to my brother, you understand?” He chuckled. “Keeps him from getting underfoot, back home.”

It wasn’t too far from the truth, and Kalan had long since learned that the best lies held enough truth to make them palatable.

“Yesa, family’s hard.”

The Gungan tossed Kalan a pouch of credit chips, though the stacks of plastic were meaningless to the Vong warrior as anything but a means of continuing his operations. “Extra dalee—per all yous discreteon,” the local said.

“Always a pleasure,” Kalan said, smiling. “Give the tyrants hell,” he added, just as a sycophantic merchant would.

While the rest of the Gungan warriors began unloading the stolen freighter, laying crates of antiquated blasters and ammunition to go with them out in a neat stack, Kalan smiled softly to himself.

* * *

“You stand in the presence of Queen Mairayni, Sixth Queen of Naboo, by the grace of her subjects, and the will of the Maker,” the armsman announced to Thrawn and Maedhros, holding his hand over his sidearm’s holster at a formal rest. “Grand Admiral Thrawn and . . .” the armsman paused for only a split second, as he gazed at the gray-eyed alien, “Prince Maedhros, son of Fëanor—a guest of the Grand Admiral.”

The heavily-powdered face of the Queen remained a composed mask, and Maedhros had to admire to woman’s composure . . . once he was done marveling over her gravity-defying hairdo. He noticed that Thrawn didn’t bow in the slightest toward the Queen, and decided to follow the Chiss’ lead.

“Your Grace,” Thrawn said. “It is always a pleasure to visit your world.” He smiled—not a genuine smile, as far as Maedhros could tell, but rather a cold, cutting smile calculated to intimidate. “Alderaan is a pale shadow of Naboo’s beauty.”

The Queen didn’t move in the slightest, and Maedhros wondered for a moment if the woman was even breathing. “It is always a pleasure to host a member of His Majesty’s military,” she answered after a moment. Maedhros snorted in the safety of his own mind, an eyebrow quirking slightly. Her eyes swiveled toward him while he tried to wipe the exceedingly small sign of mirth from his expression. He didn’t think she understood why his eyebrow had raised itself, though.

Nonetheless, he managed to compose his rogue eyebrow after a moment’s struggle. Despite her lack of expression, he could sense the disapproval coming off of her in waves. It didn’t seem directed at the slight expression that had slipped through, but at her unexpected visitors—and life—in general. Apparently, the Nabooian court was as humorless as the ones of Middle-earth. His siblings would have died of boredom, or lit the whole place on fire. Probably the latter.

“And you, Prince Maedhros,” the Queen said. “It is always a joy to host a friend of the Empire.”

Maedhros stopped himself from correcting her—he was, after all, a friend of _Thrawn_ ; he’d reserve judgment of the Galactic Empire as a whole—and simply smiled. Like his friend, his smile was hardly a friendly thing, but it sufficed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“I’m afraid a grand admiral is always running to and fro, and I must retire back to the _Chimaera_ soon,” Thrawn said. “Still, as always, it was a pleasure.”

The Queen nodded, gesturing for a Royal Guardsman to take them away.

* * *

“What did you see?” Thrawn asked, as they walked out in the open, passing by and through the soft, almost liquid arches of Theed’s architecture.

“Besides the hair?” Maedhros asked. His voice was serious, but there was a glint in his eyes that made it far more humorous.

“Besides the hair,” Thrawn confirmed, giving a chuckle. Nabooian hairstyles were odd to his practical mind, and he readily admitted that they could be distracting.

“She was not pleased to see you.” Maedhros’ tone was still serious, but the humorous glint was gone from his eyes. “Nor myself.” Thrawn nodded for him to continue as they walked on. “But, to be blunt, I did not think much of her at all.” He gave a small shrug. “She _was_ , and I can think of no more.”

Thrawn nodded again, and they walked on in silence toward the hangars set aside from the city, until Thrawn suddenly veered off course, now leading them to where the city dropped off at the edge of a massive cliff face. Without a moment’s hesitation, Maedhros followed.

“You are, of course, correct in your assessment of the Queen,” Thrawn said. “She’s an empty throne masquerading as a powdered face and a hairdo.”

Maedhros chuckled.

“Truly, she is.” Thrawn stopped as they reached the edge of the city, and Maedhros’ eyes widened slightly as he saw the plains opening up below them for miles and miles in every direction. Below them, waterfalls crashed down from streams that flowed through the city, becoming rivers once again that flowed out into flood plains, disappearing into the rolling hills that looked blue from the distance.

Thrawn was silent, letting Maedhros appreciate the beauty for a moment, before he continued on. “There are very few people in power in this galaxy that are different from Her Grace the Queen. Every world seems to abound in shallow, vapid rulers that have no education, and no desire to learn their own weaknesses.”

“I am well familiar with the type, my friend,” Maedhros said, his eyes still on the beautiful plains and hills that stretched out before them.

“I have no doubt,” Thrawn said. “Stupidity seems to flourish . . . everywhere.” He turned to look at the tall Elf. “She is a foretaste of what you can expect in the capital; the first introduction, if you will.”

The two stood in companionable silence as they both considered the words. The wind tugged at Maedhros’ garments, and he smiled slightly before nudging Thrawn. “The view is worth an empty throne ‘masquerading as a powdered face.’ ”

Thrawn chuckled. “Indeed it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think and comment! That's an order! ;)
> 
> So . . . the Vong have shown up (even if in a small way in this chapter,) and I'm a little nervous about writing them, as I don't know a whole lot about them. I'm having fun teasing out the plot for this story though, and I hope it doesn't disappoint ya'll in the next few chapters!
> 
>  **EDIT:**  
>  I'm done trying to beat my head against the wall. I've tried writing the third chapter from about every angle I can think of, and it just doesn't work. Upon review, however, I think the two chapters that do work can stand on their own. So I'm calling it done, as it is.  
> I'm really sorry that I couldn't make the third chapter cooperate, but it is what it is.
> 
> SECOND EDIT:  
> I finally did it! No wall can outmatch the thickness of my skull!  
> The third chapter is up, and I must say that I am so happy to have finally finished it.


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . another chapter! Hallelujah and praise the Lord!
> 
> And thank you to Morwen for proofreading it for me. As always, this story is her fault. . . .
> 
> I hope ya’ll enjoy it!

# 3

“Time can play its cruel tricks on someone else; I have work to do.”

—Grand Admiral Mitth’raw’nuruodo

* * *

**_Naboo Orbit, Mid Rim, 0 BBY_ **

Captain Gilad Pallaeon folded his hands behind his back, unconsciously mimicking one of Thrawn’s more distinctive poses. His expression was reserved and professional while he watched vac-suited figures and welding drones from Ronwem Station that were crawling over the hull of the _Chimaera_.

Though the five-year-old ship wasn’t even close to the end—or even the _middle—_ of her service life, that didn’t stop the yard dogs at Ronwem from surveying the hull for stress fractures or battle damage that would only become apparent after multiple hyperspace jumps. Thus far they hadn’t found anything more than slight stress fractures at the edges of the inertial compensator fields, and Pallaeon was more than a little proud of that fact, given his ship’s role as the Grand Admiral’s flagship—Thrawn was a brilliant officer, but he was rather _hard_ on ships . . .

A welding drone—a spindly thing with vectoring thrusters mounted along every axis—drifted past the bridge ports, and Pallaeon almost wanted to wave, just to startle the drone operator. He didn’t, of course. That would have been a display _far_ too unseemly for the bridge of a star destroyer.

“Sir,” an officer said from behind him.

Pallaeon turned to look at the assistant tactical officer. Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Lieutenant?”

“Sir, the TO is concerned about those new contacts at the edge of the system’s hyper-limit.” The ATO had a quiet voice, but didn’t look even slightly perturbed as he talked with the ship’s commanding officer, unlike most of the junior officers would have been.

Pallaeon nodded, as if it made perfect sense for the TO to send his assistant to report that he was concerned about something. Though, almost like he had read his mind, the ATO said, “He would have reported himself, of course, sir, but he’s . . . busy.”

From nearly any other member of the ship’s junior officer cadre—except the engineers, since they were _all crazy_ , and couldn’t be blamed for their unorthodox attitudes—the simple statement that an officer was ‘too busy’ to talk with the CO would have been an insult. The tactical officer, however, held the safety of tens of thousands of men in his hands, and could be pardoned for not taking his attention away from something he was ‘concerned’ about.

“Understood,” Pallaeon said, watching the ATO relax. He gestured for the young man to lead him back to the tactical station in the crew pit followed behind. His stiff joints protested climbing down the steep steps, but he hid the grimaces of pain.

Lieutenant Commander Grear was hunched over his display, his lips moving without actually saying anything out loud. He glanced at the approach of Pallaon and his assistant. “Sir,” he said, his eyes back on a two-dimensional representation of the star system. As most objects in a star system were—basically—along a single plane, a simple two-dimensional screen was, broadly speaking, sufficient.

Grear gestured at a simple yellow blip on the screen. “The merchantmen,” he said simply.

Pallaeon nodded. The five merchantmen had dropped into the system a half an hour earlier, and were now steadily making their way in-system. Convoys were not unheard of in the Mid Rim, though they were rare outside of wartime, and it appeared Grear had taken that rarity as an excuse to observe them with high-gain sensors for the last thirty minutes. Everyone needed a hobby.

“Yes?”

“Their acceleration and emissions.” Again, Pallaeon raised an eyebrow. “Acceleration is about eight klicks squared, and their emissions are lighting them up like it’s the Winter Fete.”

“Eight squared isn’t even close to military specs,” Pallaeon pointed out.

“No, sir, but it’s quite a lot higher than _civilian_ specs too.” He pointed at the tonnage estimates, which were based on surface area returns from the _Chimaera_ ’s sensors. “ _Especially_ with tonnages like that.” Before Pallaeon could respond, Grear continued. “And the emissions they’re blasting off would take some serious ray shielding to make sure they didn’t fry themselves.”

“Not civilian-grade,” Pallaeon murmured. He understood now, or at least thought he did. There were Rebel groups in the Outer Rim with enough funding to maintain small capital ships—only small numbers, thank the Maker—and it wasn’t that much of a stretch to imagine that these ‘merchantmen’ were actually Rebel cruisers. “What are the chances that you’re wrong?”

Grear answered instantly, without having to second-guess himself, “Two-out-of-five.”

Pallaeon frowned at the utilitarian display. He’d never heard of Rebel cells operating so close to Naboo, of all places, but he couldn’t take the chance that Grear was wrong.

 _Unless. . . ._ He shook his head slowly, casting the indecisive thought away.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll go to condition two and detach from the station.” Detaching from the station would allow them much more tactical freedom—as well as get the yard dogs out of their hair, which none of the spacers would mind—and condition two would put the crew on notice that general quarters (condition one) might very well be imminent.

“Aye, Captain,” Grear said.

Pallaeon nodded and turned to climb out of the pit. He’d need to find the exec and get his orders out, as well as find the signal officer and see about talking with the ‘merchants’ heading in-system. Or maybe he shouldn’t. It might be better to leave them thinking the _Chimaera_ wasn’t paying attention.

Perhaps he was overreacting, but serving as Thrawn’s flag captain had taught him one lesson above any other; be prepared for the worst.

* * *

**_Naboo, Mid Rim, 0 BBY_ **

“Thrawn here,” the Chiss said, speaking into the cylindrical comlink. Of all the innovations of this _arda_ , those little devices had to be among the most wondrous, Maedhros thought. The battlefield applications alone of having them dispersed among company commanders . . .

 _“Pallaeon, sir,”_ a tinny voice said. _“We have potential trouble brewing up here, and I would appreciate if you return to_ Chimaera _soon, sir. I’ll be sending you a fighter escort for your shuttle.”_

Thrawn raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question Pallaeon’s caution. “Understood,” he said. “Send me a tactical download immediately.”

_“Aye, sir.”_

Slipping his comlink back into his pocket, Thrawn looked at where Maedhros had stood by, listening. The Elf said, “The Captain is a vigilant man.”

“Indeed.” Thrawn’s touchpad chimed and he lit the screen, a tactical download from the _Chimaera_ ’s CIC in its hard drive. His glowing eyes read the flowing lines of text with inhuman speed.

“Is there true trouble?” Maedhros asked, seeing how the Chiss’ eyes were suddenly very intently focused on the screen of the pad.

“Oh, I am sure there is.” Thrawn looked up from the screen. “Though that is nothing new.”

* * *

**_Naboo Orbit, Mid Rim, 0 BBY_ **

Kalan Tar looked out at the stars as they accelerated out-system. The deck of the stolen freighter—though its prior owners were so long dead that no one would miss it—thrummed from the vibrations of the engines and inertial compensators. If it hadn’t been a blasphemous collection of technologies and infidel engineering, he would have found the atmosphere of the ship quite comforting.

Tran Yun sat quietly, almost sullenly, as Kalan looked out at the beauty of the distant stars. “They were weaklings.”

Kalan started. “What?”

“The Unworthy on the planet,” Tran Yun said, referring to the long-eared ones, instead of the ones that simply looked fleshy. “They are weaklings.”

Kalan cocked his head, snorting. “Come here.” Despite the younger Vong’s attitude, Tran complied. Kalan pointed at where a series of blips on the infidel screen were accelerating in-system. “What did the Unworthy say to us?” he questioned.

“They were planning a revolt.” Tran waved his hand, making a sound that was only slightly less than a sneer. “But if they had wanted to kill their masters they would have done so years ago, instead of slowly working up the courage.” He only paused briefly to look at the blips.

“For a man of our caste, I am continually shocked at your stupidity.”

Tran stiffened, his misshapen ears flattening out slightly. “Careful, old one—”

“Don’t insult me by thinking you can kill me.” Kalan leaned back in his seat. “You could never.” His eyes promised that every word was true. “These Unworthy _did_ have enough courage to try to kill their masters, and there’s a floodplain on that accursed world that is nothing but _glass_ because of that. Courage did not help with superheated plasma.”

He tapped the blips on the screen once again, this time more forcefully. “They were primitives being exposed to the power of orbital bombardment, and they learned their lesson quickly; they needed a presence in space.” He cocked his head again, thinking about how easily he slipped back into being a teacher of the young. It had been a disturbingly long time since he’d been a master teaching younglings—he was getting old. “The Unworthy told us they were glad we arrived before their attack. Given we were a half-day early, the attack must be imminent.”

Tran looked at the blips. “They _bought_ warships?”

“Ah, finally.” Kalan smiled. “You see.”

“They will fail,” Tran said with the certainty that comes with youth. “They _are_ a weak people.”

“It does not matter, not to the Elders’ plans,” Kalan replied. “But there is something else you must remember about the Unworthy; they will keep fighting, even when they have no hope of victory.”

Tran sneered again. “And you also said they’re the finest warriors to grace the stars, old fool—”

The young warrior blinked against the sudden, exquisite pain, realizing that his perspective had suddenly changed. Instead of looking at the sensor readout, he was flat on his back, staring into the flat eyes of his master. One of Kalan’s hands was wrapped around Tran’s neck, the other bloody from his pulped nose.

“I am patient,” Kalan said. “I am even generous. . . . But I will only tolerate so much mockery from unblooded children.”

Tran tried to swallow, finding it very difficult with the hand around his throat. “I apologize.” His voice sounded strangled from the grip on his windpipe and nasal from his broken nose.

Kalan slowly released him, rising to his full height. “Go use the _villip_ ,” he ordered. “Tell the Elders our mission here is a success.”

“As you command.”

* * *

The bridge of the _Shu’ganya_ had been a mess.

When Captain-General Has-Has Terpab had first set eyes on the tangles of wiring, burnt-out panels from where silmites had chewed through conduits and started fires, excrement from the said silmites, and an overpowering stench that owed entirely to the species of the prior owners, the sight had made him blink and try to withdraw his eyestalks into his skull.

It had been hideous. . . . And incredible.

As much as the prior owners of the _Keldon_ -class ship had been less than truthful about the state of the converted merchantman—as well as her sister ships—that fact had been ignored in favor of the simple achievement of its existence; it was, after all, the first time a Gungan warship—albeit one that had been converted from a merchantman—had ever prowled the void.

“Da ’perial star destroyeren holden posit’on besa’de da station,” a warrior from the Tiam clan reported from his position at the modified sensors station. The _Shu’ganya_ —as well as her sister ships—had refrained from hammering away at the only warship of note with their active sensors, lest they give away the game too early. Still, the warrior at the sensors station sounded very confident about the position of the star destroyer.

That Oma-Oma-damned star destroyer.

Has-Has made a grunting sound in response, slouching a little in the command seat. It had been built for a Rodian, and his gangling form didn’t fit it very well. “Daysa shouldna ha’ been ha’r, in da first placen,” he grumbled.

“Can me hit themsa wit a targeten pulse?” the warrior behind the tactical station asked.

“Nosa—nosa untilin wesa’re closen enough to tapen themsa wit’ a spark-ouchee.”

* * *

“Remarkable restraint, for Gungans,” Thrawn commented, once again on the bridge of the _Chimaera_. He had his hands folded behind his back, his right thumb absently tapping the other hand.

“From what you say of this race, I must agree,” Maedhros said. “Not that I understand _all_ the intricacies of your form of war . . .” only the remarkably faint upturning of a corner of his mouth marked the admission, “but it would seem to me that war is war, even if the particulars are occasionally different.”

“Indeed,” Thrawn agreed, eyes fixed on the tactical plot in front of him. “They think they are still concealed, and are resisting the urge to paint us with their sensors. A quite unusual trait for this species.”

“How so?”

“From my own experiences with them, as well as their culture and artwork, I believe they are a rather impulsive race. Mostly due to shorter than average lifespans.” Maedhros could only let out a very faint snort at that. Every mortal race he’d met had ‘shorter than average’ lifespans. “But their artwork and their religion—which is often expressed through artwork, regardless of culture—reflects that impulsiveness as well: There is very little subtlety or build in their art.”

“Sir,” Pallaeon said, approaching them. “The ship is standing by to execute your orders.”

“Very well,” Thrawn said, his voice louder now that he wasn’t speaking only to his Elven friend. “Let’s be about it.”

* * *

The Imperial star destroyer _Chimaera_ vanished into hyperspace as a streak of light, before reappearing an instant later. . . . Directly in front of the Gungan warships.

The feat of navigation was astounding, and more so, the restraint of the _Shu’ganya_ ’s tactical officer. He was so restrained, in fact, that it took him all of three heartbeats to light off the ship’s active sensors, and bring up a targeting solution.

“What yousa do?” Captain-General Has-Has Terpab demanded of the warrior behind the tactical console, partly because of the warrior’s sudden actions that had given away their identity as a warship, and partly because they had just come nose-to-nose with a rather large star destroyer.

“Meesa no nothin’!”

“Yousa do somethin’!”

Fighters began swarming from the hangars of the star destroyer.

* * *

“Execute jump,” Thrawn ordered, his eyes still glued to the tactical plot. Beside him, Maedhros felt his stomach lurch slightly as the ship conducted another micro-hyperspace jump, but remained silent. He’d been in battle too many times to number, and knew better than to disturb his friend’s focus.

“Captain,” Thrawn said simply, turning his gaze on Pallaeon.

Pallaeon nodded, and turned to an officer in the crew pit. “Helm, roll the ship on its axis, two-hundred forty degrees relative to the solar plane.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Rolling two-hundred and forty degrees relative, aye.”

Slightly confused, Maedhros still maintained his silence, but was surprised when Thrawn commented, almost absent-mindedly, “No Gungans that I know of have ever fought in space before. And while I agree that war is—for the most part—war, there _are_ some uniquely distinguishing characteristics to fighting in an airless vacuum while in freefall.”

Thrawn’s hand tapped the icons of the Gungan ships—how, _exactly_ he had even determined with such certainty they were Gungans still escaped Maedhros—and said, “They are adhering to the solar plane like they are aboard a sailing ship on an ocean.” He smiled thinly. “And even a small advantage, if unknown to the enemy, is worth ten star destroyers.”

“Ship is cleared for action, Admiral,” Pallaeon reported, making both Thrawn and Maedhros turn back to him.

“Get us in the fight, Captain.”

“Gladly.”

* * *

The three TIE/LN squadrons swarmed around the Gungan ships, flying so close to the surface of their hulls, as to be nearly impossible to hit with the point defense weapons of the converted merchantmen. Point defense cannons, after all, had a minimum effective range, just like any turreted weapon which could only depress so far.

“Tell da shootas not’a hitten on una another!” Has-Has Terpab snapped, as the _Shu’ganya_ trembled slightly underfoot. One of her sister ships had opened fire on the fighters, seemingly uncaring if their stray bolts hit anything _friendly_.

“Theysa fighterens wansa talken with!” the warrior from the communications station said. “Talken ’bout usa surrenderen’ ”

“Tell them-sa to gosa ’way!” Has-Has Terpab snapped. He wasn’t interested in surrender—after all, his ships outnumbered that star destroyer three-to-one.

A fresh alarm blared at the tactical station. “Da star destroyer isa back!”

Has-Has Terpab growled as the ship trembled again from friendly fire, but ignored it for a moment as he called up a tactical plot. . . . And then his mind tied itself into knots.

The star destroyer was moving—drifting, really—toward them, but it was both twisted and angled off in a different direction, making it look like it was sliding at them while it tumbled through the void. It wasn’t that he didn’t _understand_ —he was far from an idiot (unlike some point-defense gunners, he could mention), after all—but it was confusing whenever he looked at the tactical icon come _sliding_ at him, when all of his experience insisted that it should be moving in the direction it was pointing.

But as his mind unworked the knots the strange maneuver had tied it into, he realized something else. The star destroyer wasn’t just coming _toward_ them; it was coming _right at them_. Again, the shock and confusion ate away at precious seconds, and was only chased away when the _Shu’ganya_ suddenly shook violently.

“They’ve opened fire on us!” the warrior at the tactical station exclaimed needlessly, returning fire with their main batteries without waiting for orders.

Shielding strained against the onslaught, and Has-Has Terpab finally managed to make his mouth work right, even if his brain was still catching up. “Desa’re come’n righten at us! Moven our goin’!” he snapped.

The warrior at the helm station stared at him dumbly, then began tapping commands into his console, ordering the ship—and, by extension—the rest of the ships to turn away from the current heading, and put more power into the engines.

* * *

The tension on the _Chimaera_ was a living thing, it seemed, and it stretched and tensed further and further as the seconds slid past. The ship trembled slightly with every bolt its shielding strained against, and the turbolaser batteries were hard-pressed to return half as much fire as the star destroyer was receiving.

“Signal the fighters to get clear,” Thrawn ordered. He and Maedhros both seemed to be immune to the tension, and the Chiss let a cold smile come to his face a moment later. “About now, I should think, Captain.”

* * *

The _Chimaera_ would have impacted the _Shu’ganya_ had Has-Has Terpab not ordered his ships to scatter to avoid the collision, and, as it was, there was a bare forty-three kilometers of separation when the _Chimaera_ rocketed past.

But the seemingly random tumble the Imperial vessel had been put into meant her engines were pointed directly at the three maneuvering Gungan warships as she drifted past. Just for a handful of seconds, the main engines of the ponderous star destroyer ignited, throwing out cones of superheated exhaust from her drive nozzles . . . directly into the formation of Gungan ships.

Shields strained against the torture of the impossibly hot exhaust plume, but it was almost as if Has-Has Terpab’s ships had found themselves in an extraordinarily low orbit around a star, and it only took a second and a half for every shield to fail catastrophically.

* * *

Maedhros watched the scene play out, and was almost shocked at the speed of the battle. It wasn’t the ponderous battle between warships he’d imagined it would be; it was short, bloody, and over nearly as quickly as it had begun.

“All enemy ships are in uncontrolled maneuvers, Admiral,” Pallaeon reported. “Their exterior hull temperatures are . . . _high_.”

“Correct their courses with the tractors,” Thrawn responded calmly, “and prepare to take them under tow.” He glanced at the damage control team posted near the bridge’s turbolift. “Notify Major Askan to ready boarding parties, and then stand the ship down to condition two.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Pallaeon walked off to carry out Thrawn’s orders, and the Chiss folded his hands behind his back. Only the beginnings of a slight frown betrayed any emotion.

“That was not what I had expected,” Maedhros commented quietly, so that only his friend could hear. “Not that I knew what to expect, but nonetheless . . .” He frowned severely. “Are they alive; your enemy?”

“I would very much doubt it,” Thrawn replied quietly. “And I hope that they died quickly. Though, again, I doubt it.” He turned his glowing gaze to Maedhros, waiting for whatever response there might be.

Maedhros ran the memory of the short battle through in his mind, rolling it over and considering it from different angles. “Who were they?”

Thrawn glanced at the bridge staffers and the DC team that was standing down, then lowered his voice to a solemn note. “Good men, I have no doubt. And that is my burden; I kill good men on behalf of fools, just so that the future may be preserved.”

The Elf was very quiet, and Thrawn turned back to his duty in silence.

* * *

It was nighttime aboard the _Chimaera_ by the time Maedhros let himself into Thrawn’s office. The Chiss was sitting behind his desk, an unfinished glass of brandy on the top of it, working on flimsi-work. He glanced up at the intrusion, before seeing who it was. Without asking, he found a second glass, and poured.

The Elf accepted, and sat down across from Thrawn, though he was too tall for the chair, and it made him look like he was sitting in a child’s seat. He didn’t speak for a moment, but, eventually, he said, “I understand what it is like to kill for fools and . . . foolish causes.”

Silence lingered between them for a moment, before Maedhros added, “But I know there is more to it than that.”

Thrawn set his flimsi-work down and leaned back in his seat, considering his drinking companion. “There is a race from beyond the fringes of the universe, my friend. They are called the Far Outsiders . . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any glaring typos please let me know in the comments, and please also let me know just what you thought of the chapter. I always enjoy reading feedback!
> 
> Also, concerning any delay for _The Killing Grounds_ ; I am currently on the road, playing bluegrass music with the Sonshine Mountain Band, which I’m a part of, as well as evangelizing around the Pacific Northwest with them. All together, it means I’m extraordinarily busy. Rest assured my free time is still spent on TKG.
> 
> Blessings!

**Author's Note:**

> Please do comment, and let me know what you thought! I intend on following this up with a few more chapters, though we'll see how that goes . . .


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